1952 - 2002
by Il Mare
Summary: A mysterious owl, a ripple in time. A story about a girl who communicates with another who lived almost fifty years ago...


**Chapter I: The Owl**

    It just lay there, unmoving, the falling snow threatening to bury it once and for all. The only indication that it was still alive was the occasional rising and falling of its feathered chest, a temporary reflex which might exhaust any moment. The blood that ran from the wound in its wing had turned from red to pink, a result of melting snow beneath its disappearing heat. The sight of blood had induced a wince from Zeta, but she peered closer still, ignoring the injured wing, focusing on the ebon beak of the large male instead. It was not that she had never seen a Snowy Owl before; it was just that grisly childhood fascination with dying or suffering animals. But Zeta wasn't a child anymore. She was fifteen going on to sixteen, for chrissakes. No one considered a fifteen-year-old a little girl, would they? Sometimes, she had doubted herself. You don't act your age, her mother had told her countless times.

    She prodded the shuddering body a little with the toe of her shoe, and watched its response (or lack thereof) to her disturbance. It didn't stir. Biting her lip and furrowing her brow, she took a deep breath, bent down, picked the poor owl from its icy grave, and broke into a small run, pushing the rusty gate open with her hips and running up the granite-tiled steps, grey-green winter robes billowing out behind her.

    'Mother!' she called, looking around the familiar living room. 'Mother!'

    A crash that echoed from the kitchen even through closed doors wordlessly answered her question. She dashed - almost blindly - into the most sacred room in the house, ignoring the many reminders of innumerable punishments that had taken place after she had so much as set her germy foot onto the disinfected tiles. This time, she was bringing in her mother's utmost nightmare - a wild bird with dirt, blood, grime and who knew how many germs had crowded into the gash? The blood had already run onto her hand, and it was beginning to drip onto the floor. Her mother's tiles... the former absence of contamination... all ruined. The brass doorknob turned soundlessly, the ancient oaken door creaking on its hinges in answer, and let in the flustered girl.

    Drip. Uh-oh. Wide-eyed, she raised her head only to see her mother brandishing a wand at her, eyes afire. Behind the small woman lay a pile of broken plates and bowls.

    'If you don't get out of here this instant,' she began fiercely, 'I'll let this dysfunctional wand see you out of this room myself!'

    The poor girl backed out hurriedly, almost tripping over the carpet right outside the door. No one noticed that the great bird had woken from its deathly slumber, of course. If Zeta had, she would have screamed - who liked things that moved and wriggled of its own accord? The poor owl tried rather unsuccessfully to spread its wings, but was restricted for its good wing was trapped under the crook of Zeta's arm, and the bloodied held tightly with the girl's other hand. Zeta, however, felt the owl strain against her, and almost dropped it in surprise. She almost _did_ actually scream, but the frenzy that her mother had gotten her into shut her up.

    'And get that... that _thing_ out of the house this instant!' she yelled, flecks of spit landing on the parquet, mere inches where Zeta's feet were. She nodded a quick acknowledgement and dashed out of the door and into the freezing world beyond. She smiled a little, and shivered in the sudden cold. She put the owl gently on the snow, and felt a pang of guilt.

    'What should I do with you now?' she asked to virtually no one. 'Mother didn't even ask what was wrong. Didn't she see the blood?' An image of her mother scrubbing furiously with disinfectant in hand on the tile that the owl's blood had dripped onto brought a light chuckle from the troubled girl.

    The owl on the other hand, did not show any sign of its previous discomfort. Its injured wing still hung lopsidedly to the right of its body, but the other was stretched out, as far as it could go, while the owl seemed to be trying to take flight. What resulted was a comical dance consisting largely of hopping aimlessly around. This brought out a loud snort and a sudden brainwave. Zeta promptly got to her feet, bundled the owl in her bloodstained winter robe, and made for Mrs Quercia's house.

    She let herself into the big front yard, and knocked hurriedly on the front door. _Why didn't I think of it earlier?_ she thought. _Old Mrs Quercia is a_ healer. _Let's hope she can heal animals too._ She ignored the gnarled face that had materialized into the face of the door, politely asking who she was looking for, and knocked more fiercely against. A shuffling noise could be heard, and the door opened, the face immediately vanishing.

    'Now what's all this racket,' the wizened old lady began, before she noticed Zeta standing on her doorstep. She blinked a few times, and then broke into a toothy grin. 'Come in! Come in, my child!'

    Zeta had never been into old Mrs Quercia's house before, although she caught glimpses of the inside whenever Mrs Quercia returned from supervising her in cleaning out her garden. Her mother always complained ('Why do you bother helping other people clean out _their_ garden when our own is in such a _state_!'). And she always retorted, saying that Mrs Quercia was old and couldn't go around pottering about the weeds and getting rid of all the garden gnomes. Her mother had then turned away sulkily and muttered, 'Aren't I old too?'

    Stepping inside Mrs Quercia's living room was like being smothered by a thick blanket - the humidity in the room was tremendous, and Zeta began perspiring the moment she stepped in. She wondered absent-mindedly whether the old lady had puddles in her lungs. _That must explain her wheezing,_ she thought. She took off her winter robe, careful to make sure she didn't drop the owl, when Mrs Quercia disappeared into the kitchen, then reappeared again with a cup of tea in hand. She motioned Zeta to sit on the overstuffed cushions, where Zeta accepted the cup graciously without standing up (for the owl was bundled in her winter robes, which was on her lap by that time). She took a precarious sip, before trying not to gag - this didn't taste like tea at all! It tasted more like tree bark boiled in water. She smiled toward the kindly old woman, who was taking a seat herself, and placed her cup on the coffee table before her.

    'Mrs Quercia,' Zeta began, noticing that the old lady's eyes had landed upon the bloody mess on her lap. 'I heard you were a healer.'

    'Oh yes, I am. I used to work for -'

    Hurriedly interrupting, Zeta continued, 'I found this owl lying in front of my gate, and Mother wouldn't see to him, so I brought him here.' She lifted up the four-pound bird, and put it carefully into Mrs Quercia's outstretched hands. The owl shifted a bit, its golden eyes staring around.

    'Ah, a bird.'

    'Yes, its a Snowy, Mrs Quercia.'

    'An Ookpik.'

    'A what?'

    But before she got an answer to her question, the lady had brought the owl to the back room. Zeta didn't follow. She didn't think it would be right. You didn't go peering at people getting mended, do you? Madam Pomfrey always drew curtains around people whom she had to mend, and you weren't allowed in the infirmary if you weren't sick or injured anyway. She herself had been in there no less than five or six times during her four-and-a-half-year stay at Hogwarts.

    Now, with her winter robe off, it didn't seem too stuffy in the room anymore. Or maybe it was just because she was getting used to the humidity in the room. At this rate, she would get sick in no time. From cold to warm (finding owl, going home), then warm to freezing (encounter with mum, thrown out of house), from cold to humid and warm (going to Mrs Quercia's house).

    Mrs Quercia's living room was by no means uninteresting. It had whirring contraptions to the left, then shelves upon shelves of books, almost all well-worn. Pictures lined the mantelpiece. Intruiged, Zeta left her comfortable spot and walked toward the row of pictures, careful not to get the tips of her new robes burnt by the crackling fire. The first was a yellowed black-and-white picture, showing a little girl holding an old fashioned toy broom. The little girl was smiling and waving the broom about cheerily, her long curls whipped up by the wind. In flowing script at the bottom of the picture were the words "Emily Lerrimox, 1928". Who was this? The girl continued to wave to her as she proceeded to the next one. This one was of an orderly young woman, long curls cascading down her shoulders like water in a waterfall. Her robes were of the heavy kind, the ones you wore when you graduated. A hogwarts crest was sewn on the top left corner of the robe. The captions were simply "Graduating Emily, 1937". So dear Emily went to Hogwarts too. In this picture, Emily was brushing her curls out of her eyes almost constantly, looking irritated. The third picture showed a homey scene in front of a large country house, where the same woman peered out of the photo with a hand over the shoulders of a burly looking man. Two children stood in front of the couple. The words, in the same flowing script, read "Emily Quercia, Robert Quercia, Adeline (5) and Edward (4), 1950". 30 years had passed. Emily Quercia? Ah, so Emily was Mrs Quercia. She could hardly tell from the previous photos, but the Emily in this photo had the same high cheekbones as the Mrs Quercia now. Robert must have been her husband, and Adeline and Edward her children. Both Emily and Robert were waving and laughing heartily, but Edward was pulling his sister's hair, and Adeline was stomping on Edward's foot mercilessly. She let out a little snort of laughter, when suddenly a mass of white crashed down on her chest.

    'Slow down, boy!' the familiar raspy voice shouted from the back room.

    As Zeta got up from her daze, she realised that the owl who had mentally attached itself to her, now perched atop her shoulder.

    'You've got one hyperactive owl there, child!' Mrs Quercia said, apparently amused by the owl's antics.

    Zeta put her index finger to the shoulder where the Snowy was perched, and it walked onto it. Smiling, she looked at the formerly injured wing to find that it was as good as new. The Snowy seemed to be extremely happy about it, and took off from Zeta's finger, flying around Mrs Quericia's living room in circles, finally landing atop Mrs Quericia's greying curls. The old woman laughed a hearty laugh, before swatting the great bird off. The Snowy finally settled itself in the mantelpiece, beside Mrs Quercia's photographs.

    'I really ought to be going now, Mrs Quercia,' Zeta said, walking toward the Snowy, and retreiving her bloodied winter robes from the coffee table where Mrs Quercia had put them. Once again, she wrapped the Snowy in the same robes, and ventured out of the front door which opened automatically for her. The gnarled face appeared in the front door yet again, and bade her goodbye in the most polite way. The moment she was outside, the cold got to her. But she couldn't put on her winter robes now, could she? The owl was wrapped in it. She ran rather quickly toward her own house, white puffs escaping her mouth with each breath she took. She let herself in, and her mother was already setting the table, humming happily, apparently forgetting about the earlier episode.

    'Come and have your dinner, dear,' she said without looking up.

    But Zeta just stood there, shivering. The owl peered over the folds of the winter robe, and stared at her mother, and made a loud "hoo-uh" sound. It was apparently very excited, what with the shuttling between two houses of completely different environments, and the complete healing of his damaged wing. At this, her mother looked up, and stared back at the owl, then at her daughter.

    'Um, mum...' Zeta began meekly.

    'Zeta! What happened to you? Give me those filthy winter robes now! They need to be washed... and _what happened to your new christmas robes?_' the lady was now working herself into a fine frenzy. 'Get out of them this instant!' Eyes flaring, she stared at her daughter as she threw the winter robes in the general direction of her mother, then walked up the stairs to change.

    Upon reaching her bedroom, she slipped out of the muddied robes, picked up from the slushy Mrs Quercia's garden. The Snowy flew around Zeta's bedroom, finally deciding to settle on her study table. It looked rather disgustedly at the feathered quills, then set about his business of preening while Zeta changed.

    'What should I name you?' she said aloud. 'Neve. Is Neve good?' She looked toward the Snowy, which bobbed its head up and down in an awkward manner. She laughed. 'You seem to understand what I'm saying, Neve.' The Snowy nodded again. 'Yes, Neve is a good name.' 


End file.
